


The Precipice

by infinite_regress



Series: Together [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, One Shot, Romance, Shoulder rubs, bath tub, falling, some nudity, valentine offering, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_regress/pseuds/infinite_regress
Summary: The Doctor and Clara find themselves in a perilous position. Later, there is a bubble bath, a shoulder rub, and nudity.Don't judge me, it's Valentines day, and it's my 50th posting. That means something, to me anyway.





	The Precipice

Hearts racing, the Doctor lurches to a stop at the edge of a precipice, and grabs Clara's arm. A second later and she would plunge into darkness. She hardly flinches. Her eyes lock with his, and in that moment he doesn’t know which is more terrifying, the cruel, jagged rocks far below, or her unyielding faith that he’ll catch her before she falls.

At the outset of this latest dance with death, she told him ‘I trust you’ and right now he hates that she does. Wishes, even, that she didn’t. Her eyes never leave his as he hauls her roughly back onto solid ground at his side. She grunts and gasps, but keeps her feet, clinging to him for a brief eternity.

He holds her close and murmurs, “I’ve got you.” He’s not sure who he’s reassuring, himself or Clara, and he’s not even sure it’s working because they are both trembling now.

“I know,” she whispers, and doesn’t move from his arms. 

He breathes her in. She is stardust and salvation, the song of the universe strumming softly in his soul, always just a heartbeat away and yet spinning forever just out of reach. The way her hair brushes under his chin makes him want to hold her longer, and they remain locked together. Her heart is racing, her breaths coming fast, and the flush on her cheeks, well that’s fear, or excitement. He can’t tell, and if pressed he couldn’t swear to which he’s feeling right now, either.

When she does move, for they both know they can’t stay locked together in the darkness, for so many reasons, mostly because the pack of braying hounds must surely be close enough to catch their scent, and the masters of those hounds have long pointy sticks and short tempers, for those reasons, probably, she takes his hand, and says, her voice breathy, “We need to run.”    

His fingers thread through hers. They fit, her small hand, his long fingers, but that feeling of  _ rightness  _ as they link hands still terrifies him. Not that he is afraid of her, exactly, but the deep shadow of her absence. That’s what scares him. 

They run. They are expert runners, bolting through the winding caverns, rocks closing in. It gets harder to squeeze through as the chambers narrow and lead upwards. Reluctantly, well, there is a hint of reluctance he thinks, she drops his hand and steps ahead of him. There is enough light that he can see her back. Her hair bounces. Long and wild. He has a dim awareness that she’ll need to get her hair cut before he takes her home. How long has she stayed this time? Surely not as long as a month?  Two? Longer? How fast did human hair grow anyway?

Dogs howl. Voices, sharp and angry. 

They pick up the pace. There’s light ahead, but the hairs on the back of his neck are prickling. He calculates the incline, views the hue of the light ahead as they run. 

“Clara!” He jerks her again, this time using both hands to slam her back against his chest. They both stumble and totter. 

She looks agog at the sheer drop, and whistles softly. It must be hundreds of meters. There is water below, and it looks deep, but really he can’t be sure. He kicks a stone into the water, watches and listens.  

She twists in his arms, looks at him, her head tilted to one side. “I had a dream once. With you, the other you. We were standing at the edge of an abyss.”

He remembered it too, faintly. Not a dream, but a ghost memory. A message in a bottle, burned onto her hand and onto his hearts. He wonders if that was the day he stopped trying to unravel her mystery and started falling in love with her. If it was, he’s fallen an impossibly long way since then.   

The horizon is wide and pale blue, clouds chasing across a hazy sky, the sun barely burning the mist from the water below further downstream. 

Dogs barking, closing in. 

She turned her face up to him, a hint of fear betraying her. “That’s a long way.”

Something sticks in his throat. He can survive it, but can she? “Clara,” he said, looking at her and then at the water far below. She’s right. It’s a stupid, dangerous plan. But he doesn’t have another one. There’s no way back past the snapping hounds, and talking their way out of this one hardly seems an option. The only way out is to jump.   

“Think of it as a leap of faith. Close your eyes if it makes it easier. When you hit the water, your body knows what to do. Hold your breath and kick hard. ” His hearts races furiously, and despite his bold words, he hesitates. He’s not ready to fall. He is not ready to lose her. The shadow is at his shoulder.

She nods. Her eyes bright with excitement, her lips pressed together. She takes a deep breath. “Alright.” Then she does an unexpected thing. She reaches up on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his lips, too brief to be passionate, lingering too long to be platonic. “For luck,” she whispers. 

The dogs are close now, so close he thinks he can feel their hot breath on his back. Again they link hands. She moves first, and his feet follow. They are plunging, falling, screaming, wind tearing at hair and clothes. Her hand is yanked from his. A second later she is out of sight. 

Water engulfs him, chilling him to the bone, knocking breath from his body, and the world becomes a roiling mass of white. He plunges underwater, slowing, and then starts kicking upwards. His lungs are fire, so heavens only knew how she’s doing.

He breaks the surface, breath heaving, lungs burning. Where is she? He can’t see her, nor hear anything but wild thrashing in the water, and wishes it would stop so he could focus on finding Clara. Then he realises they are his own long limbs flailing, his own breath gasping as he flounders. Breathe, Doctor. Slow down. Tread water. Look around. 

She’s already on the bank, shaking her hair out, calling his name, beckoning him over. She offers her hand and he scrambles onto the grass beside her. She’s breathing hard. Laughing. Then hugging him tight. 

“That was amazing!” her excitement sweeps him along, and he’s hugging her back, laughing too, almost lifting her from her feet. They’re both dripping wet, giggling with relief and something else he can’t name. He’s more awake than he’s felt in years. The vivid memory of her lips flash before him like breath on a mirror, spreading through his body, then vanishing. He wants to feel that again. 

The dogs yowl and snarl up above, and their runners can’t be far behind. 

She tugs her fingers through her tangled hair. “We better get going."

He agrees, and they head quickly away from the caverns and onto the road. Soon the sound of howling dogs is replaced by birdsong. The TARDIS is a good days walk from where they are now, so they crack on at a good pace. As the sun sets and the air chills their clothes are almost dry but not quite.  It’s not pleasant, but they’ve been in worse situations. She’s rolled her shoulder several times as they walk. 

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“Nah, it’s not too bad. Jerked my shoulder as we were falling.”  

Part of him wants to talk about that kiss. He plays it over in his mind. Examines it from all angels.  What did she mean by it?  He might be an idiot, but he isn’t a fool. A quick peck on the lips as they hovered at the edge of destruction doesn’t mean anything. It meant good luck, nothing more, and it did it’s job. They were still alive, weren’t they? She probably is embarrassed by it now. Best not to mention it really. She glances at him with a warm smile. Heat floods him and he looks quickly away. 

She does it again later, throwing him into spasms of self doubt. He blushes and keeps walking, because he doesn’t know what else to do.  She sighs and hurries to catch up.

They find food on the go in the next town, a dodgy kind of sausage in a bun that they eat quickly and don’t question, washed down with a bottle of grog that he’s a bit suspicious of, but she glugs back. She’s slowing down. She tries to keep up, he slows the pace. Apart from anything else, her legs are much shorter than his. She doesn't ask him to stop though, and he’s painfully aware the TARDIS is still hours away. 

What’s the right thing to do here? Keep walking through the night? They might make it home before dawn, he supposes, but Clara must be exhausted. He’s irritated by the fact that she won’t suggest stopping. They’re on the road out of town, if they don’t decide soon they’ll be out of choices, and it will be walk all night or rest behind a wall or in a barn in the open countryside. She keeps rubbing her shoulder, but brushes off his questions about it. A few paces later, she stumbles, and that infuriates him. Why won’t she say what she needs?

“Look,” he says in the end, his tone harsher than he intended, “This is daft. You must be exhausted. We should try to get rooms at the next inn.”

“I’m alright,” she insists, but she clearly isn’t. 

“For God’s sake, Clara, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” she looks perplexed, and more than a little annoyed.  

“This. Keeping up. You’re human-"

“Oh, well spotted,” she grumbles, but he notices she doesn’t deny needing to stop and rest.

He points at pub a few hundred meters down the road. “The Honest John. Let’s see if there’s room at the inn.” 

She nods wearily, rolls her shoulders. “That’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” She strides towards the inn.

Bewildered, and grumpy, he stares at her stubborn back.  

Inside, the bar is dark and noisy, and he suspects its name is somewhat ironic, because the patrons look like cut throats and thieves. He shouts at the beekeeper, a woman with a beery apron and bright smile, that they need two rooms.

“I got one," she says, with a twinkle, looking from one to the other. “Not two.”

“It’s alright,” Clara says, “we don’t mind sharing.” 

“We don’t?” he fires back in surprise.

“Well  _ I  _ don’t. Do you?”

He splutters. “If you don’t then I don’t.”

She looks at him with an expression he’s not managed to decode yet, blowing her breath out and shaking her head. 

#

The room has one double bed, a small bathroom, a wardrobe and a chair. It’s not the worst place he’s stayed in, but it hardly ranks as comfortable. All Clara seems interested in is the bath. She’s already running the water and pulling off her boots. She looks tired, though, and as she sits waiting for the water to run, she’s almost asleep. He hangs their coats and boots by the roaring fire. Maybe they’ll be dry by morning.

When the water is hot and bubbly, he gently nudges her awake. “Clara. Your bath.”

“Uh?” Blearily, she wanders into the bathroom. He follows her, then turns about. She draws the door to, but doesn’t shut it fully. After a few moments, he hears the water begin to splosh. 

Minutes pass. He lays on the bed, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the ceiling. After a while, the sploshing stops and she falls silent.  He expects to hear her get out, but she doesn’t. He gets up and pauses by the door. “Don’t fall asleep in there,” he says through the crack. 

She calls, “Come in and talk to me, if you like.” 

He steps though uncertainly, but she’s submerged beneath bubbles, only her head and arm sticking out, so he feels on relatively safe ground. He perches on the lavatory, legs crossed. Her hair is piled upon her head.

“It was worth it,” she says.

“What?”

“All that running and jumping and falling. It was worth it to see the Mirkan Crystal. It was spectacular. All those colours.”

“Yeah, it really was. Next time perhaps we should ask first, though, to avoid misunderstanding.”

She laughs, as if she thinks that’s never likely to happen. She’s probably right. He notices her arm. Dark bruises in a curved row about her bicep. He moves his hand towards them. She doesn’t pull away. 

He touches her arm gently, and his stomach tightens. The bruises fit the pattern of his fingertips. “Did I do that?”

She covers his hand with her other hand. “You were saving my life. I was about to plunge off a precipice.”

He feels mortified. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She looks suddenly sad. “There are lots of ways to hurt someone. This I can deal with just fine.”

What other ways does she mean? Discounting odd sadomasochist practices, he decides she means emotional pain. Not that he knows how to deal with emotional pain any more than he does the other kind. 

“Still, I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his earlobe, as a compromise with himself. 

She rolls her shoulder again, as if it aches. 

“You want me to look at that shoulder?” he offers before his better judgement can restrain his tongue. She is in the bath, and it’s hardly appropriate. 

She smiles anyway. “Sure.” She leans forward. 

He works his thumb against the knot of muscle in the well of her shoulder. He feels the tension, and as he probes her  acromioclavicular joint she makes a small sound of pleasure. The tight muscles relax under his finger tips. She rolls her head to either side.

“You’ve been holding out on me. I didn’t know you had magic hands.”

“Pressure point manipulation. It’s a subdiscipline of Venusian Aikido.” 

She sighs. “It feels wonderful.”

He stands up, suddenly unsure of himself. 

She smiles and closes her eyes, sinking back under the bubbles, her face relaxing. He wonders where she goes when she drifts off.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he warns gently.

She opens her eyes and sits up. “Sorry. You want to get clean too.” 

“I just don’t want you to drown in a cold bath,” he says, and picks up a towel and holds it for her. He realises what he’s done even before she stands up. Blushing, he turns his face to one side, as she steps into the towel and pulls it round her. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says stiffly, and watches her back as she unhurriedly leaves the bathroom. He can't unsee that glimpse of her nude body. It's burned into his brain. He's fighting with his own body now, a little ashamed that processes won't switch off and he can't control his own body.    

Minutes later, he is in the bath and she knocks on the door. “I’ve hung up my clothes. You want me to hang yours?”

“Uh. Okay.”

Still wrapped in the towel, she comes in. He sinks low beneath the remaining bubbles, his face flashing red. It’s obvious even to him that she is much more comfortable with her naked body than he is with his own. She doesn’t speak or look at him, and for that he’s grateful, she just scoops up his clothes and takes them away.

He washes quickly, gets out of the bath and pulls a towel around his waist. Feeling faintly ridiculous, he returns to the bedroom. She’s already in bed, her eyes shut, but she opens them when he comes in.

“I’ll rest in the chair,” he says.

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s alright,” he insists.

Her voice is heavy with sleep. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“No, no. The chair’s fine.”

She sighs, and mumbles, “As you wish.”

He finds a blanket from the wardrobe, pulls it around him. He watches her for a long time, and finally his body begins to calm down. There is something hypnotic about her like this, her face completely relaxed, the rise and fall of the bed clothes as she breathes. He can’t decide if she feels so safe she because doesn’t think he notices her as a woman, or if she simply doesn’t mind if he does notice her. Wants him to, even. She invited him to lay with her, and like a fool he said no. He wonders, is he ready to take that leap? Could they be together?

Then the shadow is back, casting its darkness over them both. He would fall further and harder than he ever had. It wouldn’t end well. He hates that he can’t escape this, and falls into a barbed, restless sleep. At some point in the night, he’s half asleep and shivering. He’s on the edge of a precipice, by her side. He groans quietly.

“For goodness sake. Get in the bed and warm up,” she commands sleepily, and he does, drifting quickly back into silent dreams of falling.

He wakes. The light pours in through a gap in the curtains, and there are faint sounds of footfall and voices, and clunking of barrels from the pub below. Clara is next to him, warm and sweet, and completely nude. His first instinct is to leap out of bed, but he doesn’t.

“Good morning,” she says.  

“You’re naked,” he replies.

“Well spotted.” They both fall silent. The moment hangs heavy and serious, but after a few more seconds, she laughs. He’s caught in the ridiculousness of his own reactions, and after a moment he laughs to. It feels like something lifts between them. Just Clara and the Doctor, laughing, as they always are with each other. Best friends. Only naked.  

“When I kissed you yesterday,” she said slowly, as if she is weighing her words carefully, “it felt like a question.”

“A question? What question.”

“I don’t know exactly. But I have a question of my own. Do you want to hear it?”

“Yes. I do.”

Her face is bright, her smile shining. She asks her question. “Do you want to kiss me again?”

He laughs. “If I kiss you now, I won’t want to stop.”

She becomes suddenly serious. “Didn’t you get the memo? I don’t want you to stop.”

“You don’t?” 

Looking back, he often wished he’d managed a more meaningful response, to mark the pivotal moment with one of those speeches he’s so good at. But in the moment, words fail him. He wants to kiss her more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, but he can not say a single word.

Clara bites her lip, the uncertainty telegraphed on her face. He is very aware he is the cause of it, and also that he is being particularly dim and useless. No words come to his rescue, though. 

In the end, she speaks. “Doctor, if I've got it all wrong about us, if you don’t want me this way, then get out of bed, get dressed, and we’ll go on as we were. It’ll be fine.” The sun falls through the curtains and lights her face. Her hair shines chestnut. 

“Clara,” he whispers, “you're not wrong.” The shadow is still there. It will always be there. But it suddenly occurs to him that shadows only exist because the sun is shining.  

Her bright eyes never leave his. Time is perfectly frozen but for the delicate sound of Clara’s breath. Her voice is barely more than a whisper. Then she says, articulating every word as if it is a gift. “If you want me, I’m yours.”  

"I want you," he whispers.

A smile curls the corner of her lips. “Perhaps you should think of it as a leap of faith. Close your eyes, if that makes it easier. Your body knows what to do.”

He smiles too, and presses a soft sweet kiss to her lips, and lets his body do what it wants to do. He doesn’t close his eyes, though. He doesn’t want to miss a single moment while the sun is shining. 

He kisses her again. He’s on the edge of a precipice, and this time, he’s ready to fall.   

**Author's Note:**

> So that was me, goofing off again when I should be working on something else. :) 
> 
> Comments are love and kudos is kindness.


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